Between - The Things Don't Disappear

The things don’t disappear.

Today I had the house to myself. The kids returned to school yesterday, and Shaun was at work. Originally I had an appointment this morning; but even that was cancelled due to the early morning weather. It’s been a while since I’ve simply sat with nobody around and nothing pressing on my mind. No urgent matters to attend to… and though my house could probably using a good cleaning, it wasn’t on my list of priorities for the day.

It was strange though.

Throughout the day I’ve glanced out the window hoping for this grey and rainy day to magically disappear and for the ground to transform into a thick white layer of snow, while fluffy flakes continue to fall from the sky to create a winter wonderland. I like the winter (heck I almost LOVE the winter)… but I don’t like the in-between.

Right now, it’s gotten darker out and there’s a mist still coming down. The ground is pretty clear though wet, but I know that as the temperature once again drops over the next few days; the snow will return… leaving a beautiful layer of white that will cover this gloomy darkness.

At least that’s what I hope for.

But the more that I watch the weather today, the more that I realise how it perfectly describes the place I’m in with this new year.

I’m determined to find the beautiful… to live authentically… and to continue to grow and change along the continuing course that I’m already on. I’ve found a newness about me; but as I work towards learning and accepting and just being… I’m in the in-between.

It’s like it’s this grey and brooding cloud. It’s the nothing. The between. The calm that divides.

It’s not necessarily a bad place to be. And while I’m here I can think clearly and enjoy some peace. It’s not the joy of sunshine and warmth, nor is it the crisp cleanliness of a fresh layer of snow. It just is.

And while I’m here… while I’m in this place; the things don’t disappear.

The struggle, the journey, the adventure, the rest of life. It’s still there, it’s in me. It’s waiting for the sun to come out or the skies to fill with flakes of frozen ice. But it’s also a part of it all. It’s a bigger part of the journey than we sometimes give it credit for.

It’s in these moments, this between time that I can put my feet up without guilt. Where I can say wow, I needed this break. This quiet. This peace.

Tomorrow I will continue my journey, but today’s a day of reflection among the dullness. It’s a place of appreciating the bare trees and the muddy roads. It’s seeing the world from a darker perspective without a negative undertone. It’s appreciating the beauty beneath it all.

The things haven’t disappeared from my life. But today, today’s an in-between day. Not glamorous and not ugly. Just beautiful in the space between it all.

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New Year Same Journey

When I woke up this morning, I didn’t see today as the last day of 2018. I wasn’t ending a chapter of my life, to begin a new sentence tomorrow or a fresh start with a resolution that I would have no intention of keeping. I didn’t see it as an ending this morning as I rolled out of bed and got ready to go to the grocery store – to which I would face a beginning tomorrow morning where I would wake up fresh faced and ready to tackle a new year.

This morning I did however glance in the mirror at the reflection that stared me down as I brushed my teeth and got dressed. I saw the person who stared back at me with a quiet confidence that wasn’t there last year… the one who didn’t glance away in sadness, frustration, or yes disgust this time. I saw the person that remembered that one year is a long time… but it isn’t the only time.

As I tidied the house today and cleaned up some of the post-Christmas clutter that tends to accumulate; I kept coming back to the concept of time. It’s not the first time this year that I’ve visited this idea… and it won’t be the last I’m sure. For the past few months I’ve been taking some fantastic advice and trying to see the bigger picture within my life… thinking in various increments of time but coming back to the concept of decades or seasons.

If someone asked me to define this year… my word of choice would be hard. It was a difficult year and it seemed to be riddled with dark spots, tough times, and an unsettling uncertainty. There were tears and there were fights, there was loneliness, and there was a sense of loss. Between the rough patches, there were sparks and specks of light and hope… laughter, fun, and joy. But overall, it was a hard year in many ways.

Some days I quite honestly just did not want to continue on anymore, and at some points I felt as though I simply couldn’t.

So as today shifts into tonight; and tonight grows into tomorrow… I want to define my happiness and take control, and walk towards the New Year with passion and fight and resilience. But I am also looking at the path I’ve walked, ran, and sometimes crawled over the past decade and I know that a change in the calendar year won’t magically make it easier. I know that slamming the book of 2018 closed will not lead the way into the changes I’ve worked to make happen, because it was with these lows and this darkest year yet that I’ve finally gained some ground and become the person that I am now.

Tomorrow a New Year will begin for me… a new year which I hope will continue to grow and change me as a person. But the change will flow from now… from last week, last month, last year, and even last decade. Like always, it’s not a whole new me… it’s the same me as today… the one that just wants to walk her journey and learn along the way.

Happy New Year from my journey to yours, may this year continue with growth and love and with new learning each day, with every step we take.

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Infidelity - The Damage - Part 1

• ‘Stop blaming me and get over it.’
• ‘You made the choices you made.’
• ‘I am not responsible for the way that you feel.’
• ‘There is no correlation between what you experienced in the past, and the way that you are now.’

Four years ago I began writing this blog as an outlet… a way to express the nature of the battle that I was facing in my head. A battle with mental illness and depression, suicide attempts and instability, anxiety and overall confusion… at least that’s what I shared with the world.

But the reality - the whole picture was always much different for me.

Sure, mental illness was a symptom that I began to fight with vigor… determined not to let situational depression, chemical imbalances, and the whole genetic pre-disposition thing get me down. I believed that I could fight mental illness and win. I still believe that, but with a much broader perspective, knowing that there is far more to it than controlling the outward symptoms.

Recently I’ve been experiencing another rough patch. It’s not nearly as bad as I’ve been in the past and I’m much better at managing it these days… at least for the most part. But a few weeks ago as I doubted my strength to get through this darkest period, I spoke with a friend whose words were beyond powerful as she texted me.

Read Psalm 88 – darkness is my closest friend.

It’s okay to feel the way you are sister!

You have been so mistreated – disrespected – unloved.

I wanted to believe her words so badly that night. But as I laid awake in bed, unable to sleep… I turned my head back to the bible and read the verses… several times. Going online I read several sources as they picked apart the words and I tried to understand the meaning behind it. And as dark and heart-wrenchingly sad as this Psalm is, in the end I found comfort in that fact alone. It’s dark. It’s sad. It’s okay. Even biblical writers felt completely alone.

The rest of her words hit me harder than the Psalm. It’s okay to feel the way you are sister! – In the past I have often been told that its okay to feel sad, or to feel pain, or to be angry. But those feelings must be temporary… fleeting. In the end there is always an expectation that those feelings won’t last long enough to make anyone else uncomfortable, or to move me into the status of ‘playing the victim’. It’s okay to feel those things, as long as I’m not speaking about why I feel those things… just that I do, because if I tell the whole truth, then I’m somehow crazy, dramatic, vindictive, or looking for attention.

The next words she gave me were such a relief as I felt the pain and the darkness, that at first I didn’t really know how to react. You have been so mistreated – disrespected – unloved. – Again, I’ve heard similar words in the past, but never without a clause attached. You were mistreated BUT you deserved it because you did this. Sure he mistreated you, but you’re no saint either. - To see the words solidly appear across my screen without a hesitation, a clause, or an exception took my breath away.

Ten months ago, I opened up a folder from my husband’s satchel. Out of the folder fell a small bundle of papers… a chart of sorts. When they quite literally landed on my lap, I froze momentarily as the words appeared in front of my eyes. Names. Dates. Descriptions of incidents. Affairs. Too many to count; some of them unfamiliar, strangers; and others too familiar - former friends, acquaintances, and coworkers of his.

Now, to be fair. I already knew about a couple of the incidents… one nine years ago, another five years ago, and one just two years before finding his list. I also know, that throughout my life, I have developed faults of my own, as well as unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with the difficult parts of life. I also accept that I chose to continue to fight for my marriage, remaining two feet in and ready to heal and move forward… believing that we were on the same page at the time.

Now, from my experience, I know that there are generally two trains of thought that go along with this decision: The first, is that because I chose to stay, I am a fool who brought it on myself. The second is that I must have done something wrong to force him into someone else’s arms… after all, I’m the one with the self-disclosed mental illness.

And those two trains of thought are why I’m choosing to share this now, after all of this time.

I’ve been with my husband for nearly nineteen years now (coming up next week - December 20 - would be our fifteenth wedding anniversary). Around eighteen years ago, I now know that my husband had his first affair, dating all the way back to a friend from high school. Depending on how you’re reading this, it might sound like I’m bitter or angry. But the reality is, that I’m sad… for both of them, as well as for myself.

Because you see, I knew about it… or at least I suspected that there was something... and I even questioned it. And while I truly believe that my husband never set out to harm me through his actions; self-preservation won out and I was told from the beginning that I was imagining things, that I was making too big of a deal out of nothing, and simply that the signs that I saw were in my head. He kept what actually happened a secret until this year… so did she… and I truly believed that I had spent 18 years imagining things until I saw her name on that list.

Eighteen years passed… similar patterns became a part of our life. I questioned what I saw happening before my eyes, and I was nearly driven into complete madness. I became the crazy-lady.

I was mentally ill, depressed and full of rage that was never acknowledged nor allowed. Emotionally, I felt unable to function properly, believing that my head was simply not normal, messed up, or wired wrong.

When I whispered to a friend after I confirmed the first affair that I knew about… nine years ago… I was told to spice up our sex-life. I was told that I was holding onto too much anger. I was told that he ‘seemed remorseful’ and that I was ‘too unstable’. Over the years I reached out to several people... seeking help, guidance, and at times simply a friend that I could talk to. The answers always seemed to ring with the same tone though:

• ‘Let it go’.
• ‘Don’t talk about it’.

The last several years, my own responses became wild. I was unstable. I was angry. I was ashamed. I was trying so hard to do everything right… and yet everything kept falling apart. Three years ago, I wrote a blog-post about my behaviour and the way that it hurt those around me, pushing people away, volatile, harsh, and unpredictable.

Today, I take responsibility for my behaviour, but I also want to hold up a sign and say STOP… my response was unacceptable, damaging, and frightening for those closest to me… but why was nobody around me asking me what happened? What hurts? Why are you in so much pain that you are lashing out in this way?

This is the stigma that needs to end the most.

We talk about ending stigma surrounding mental illness on a regular basis. Depression and anxiety, bipolar, even borderline personality disorder is becoming an okay topic to discuss… as long as we are discussing the disorders themselves and not the experiences that have led to these imbalances in our heads.

I want to clarify for a moment, that I do not blame my husband for my mental illness or even for my choices to stay in the relationship as long as I have… blame is suffocating and harmful, not at all conducive to healing. However, I am learning that our experiences do shape us and mould us into who we become and those experiences NEED to be shared, spoken about, and brought out of the darkness - so that we are not struggling alone.

So often, we don’t want to discuss those horrible things that make people squirm. We don’t want to see them cast their eyes downwards, or walk away, or tell us we’ve had enough time and should be over the pain. Never heard, the pain eats us, until it manifests in other ways. Addiction. Mental illness. Suicide. These are not the problem. These are the symptoms. And until we’re comfortable talking about the physical and/or sexual abuse that little Mikey faced as a child, we’ll never really be able to help him get out of the cycle of addiction or understand why he wants to escape the pain in the first place. If we never get comfortable speaking about the pain of infidelity, betrayal, and emotional and mental manipulation, we will never understand why Suzie decided to just give up and slice her wrists open… believing that she isn’t worth the effort, and that her pain is not that bad... and of course her fault for choosing to stay. And if we never talk about the constant bullying, and the shitty home life that little Billy lives with, we’ll never be able to fully empathize with his never-ending cycle of in-and-out from the psych ward and his inability to function within society.

This year, I made a commitment to speak openly and with authenticity about the struggles that I face… and up until now, I’ve been lying to you.

Because up until now, I took on the entirety of blame and the excuses… I hid the nitty-gritty, mostly out of fear. I didn’t want to embarrass my husband or ruin his life (I still don’t.), and I didn’t want to hurt those who hurt me, or seem like I was using the past as blame for our current situation. I didn't want the truth to get out as much as anyone else; I already felt like I had to hide my face.

I was conditioned to believe that I didn’t have the right to share my story out of guilt, shame, embarrassment, and fear.

Today I walk a very different journey than ten months ago. Working to heal myself has been my priority, but it looks different now that my shell has crumbled and I see a bigger image around me.

Infidelity, and the betrayal that surrounded it within my life, and on my particular journey… played a major role in my mental health issues, both my actions and my reactions… and while I’m working on changing the familiar brain patterns; to an extent, it still does affect me, and it probably will for a while. And that’s not just okay… it’s normal.  

Ten months ago. I was afraid to say that. I believed that I always had to add in a stipulation. ‘Infidelity affected me… but only because I _________.’ or 'Infidelity affected me, but it was my fault for choosing to stay.'

Today I’m ending the stigma. I’m not wallowing in self-pity, and I’m not living in the past or in blame. Today I am reaching out to tell you that you are not alone. It’s okay to talk about it. It’s okay to cry about it. It’s okay to not understand it at all, and to feel alone and terrified and confused. It’s okay to not talk about it, but it’s also okay to reach out. To let someone in. It's okay to not trust yourself. It's okay to feel confused. It's okay to feel nothing at all. It's okay to take your time. 

Today I’m talking about the damage that infidelity caused in my life... and I will continue to talk about the recovery process along my journey. 

Because life is messy. It's never linear. And it's rarely simple.

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The Past Was Always Vague

It seems to be a theme in my life these days.

• Everyone has a story.

• Don't ask what's wrong with them... ask them what happened to them instead.

• Everyone has something that changed them.

For a long time, I spoke about my symptoms. The state I was currently experiencing, and the ways in which I was working towards recovery and walking along my journey. I spoke about trials and successes… and I mentioned trauma – in brief, vague, and very generic ways.

Always vague. Always ashamed. Always afraid.

I’ve spent the past four years writing, sharing, and speaking about mental health; with each opportunity to share creating further determination within myself to be honest, authentic, and open. For the most part, I’ve been successful… my story of mental illness, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, anxiety, suicide, and depression… no longer leaving me regularly feeling burdened or ashamed. I’ve found peace, despite the struggle – knowing that to end the stigma attached to mental illness, I need to end the stigma that I myself feel towards it.

It’s different though when you look at the history… the past.

It’s an intricate dance, and a balancing of speaking truthfully and openly about your experiences… and using those same things as a crutch – an excuse for your behaviour.

But the most impactful words I’ve heard this year was when a friend told me that it’s okay… and to actually look at my past.

Not as an excuse, or a reason, or way to ‘play the victim’. But as a way of seeing how events in my life formed the way that I think, act, and react to various situations. As a way of understanding the impact that trauma has on the mind, and the ways in which it causes different responses in each unique person and in each unique situation.

For so long I was afraid to say too much. This fear of hurting those who hurt me. And this shame associated with remaining in harmful/toxic situations. But also the shame of still choosing to stay… to fight… to work. I felt unable to speak about the pain, the trauma, and the history… guilty myself for not making different choices… unworthy of acknowledgement of the pain.

I’ve spoken for months now about the trauma and the revelations in my life that have impacted me this year. Things that have shaken me… not just because of the current impact in my life; but because of the impact that they had over the course of a lifetime. But I refused to speak in authenticity. Honesty. Openness. I felt conflicted over the word victim, and the use of my story within my journey – not sure how to find the difference between words like victim, blame, responsibility, honesty, and explanation.

The longer I put it off though, the more urgent it feels to express these things… to include the history within the story of my journey. Because they are a part of who I am, and the struggle that I face on a daily basis. And I believe that we all have things that have deeply impacted us… and the only way to end the stigma against mental health, is to end the stigma surrounding the rest of the storms in our lives. To talk about the un-speakable topics. To share the pain. To express the experiences. To learn to empathize and understand that we all feel grief and trauma differently… and that no single response is more normal than another.

Speaking up and sharing the history and the journey and the experiences and the pain and the success, does not mean that I am living in the past, or that I haven’t done the work to move forward. It doesn’t mean that I hold onto hatred for those who hurt me… or even that the horrendous things that other people did which deeply impacted me, make them bad people.

What it means is that I have accepted it as a part of my own journey… and that I’m no longer afraid or ashamed. I’m no longer trapped inside of the bubble in my head that says that I “can’t” share my story because other people might think “__________” or that it might embarrass, humiliate, or hurt the other party within my story. It means that I am at a place where I can talk, and write, and share about my experiences and the things I’ve felt, and the way that they impacted me and changed my life. The same way that the decisions that I make now are changing my life again.

It means that I no longer see myself as ‘weak’ for not responding the way that I believed I should have. It means that I no longer see myself as ‘weak’ for the impact that my experiences had on my mental health. It means that I can now see two decades worth of trauma that led me to react and behave in ways that I didn't understand. It means that I see it now, and I can openly share about it and speak about it... because it did impact me, and while it isn't an excuse for my reactions, it is an explanation. And with an explanation, comes the ability to heal and to continue to change and head towards healthier behaviours. 

It means that as I continue to write, I will no longer filter the past, the current, or the future experiences that have continued to impact my mental health. It means that going forward, I will continue to work towards full authenticity in the sharing of my journey.

It might take me time, but I will learn to let go of the shame and write in full authenticity as I go forward from here.

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As the Shell Crumbles

Somewhere right around eleven years ago, I experienced a trauma that shook me to my core. It wasn’t the first major trauma that I’ve faced in my life… but it is the one that I can distinctively pinpoint as the start of my decline into serious mental illness. It was one trauma too much… the straw that broke the camel’s back. In the months that followed this trauma, a few minor breakdowns occurred and I tried my best to hold myself together. A new fear had formed, planting itself deep in my life and I tried with everything inside of me to hold it down and keep going, despite the cracks I could feel growing ever deeper in my mind, my heart, and my soul.

At twenty-three years old, I didn’t have the stability or support to acknowledge, let alone face any of this trauma… I didn’t even know that it was trauma. And I certainly didn’t know that working at a job, with direct ties to the trauma I had faced, was continually re-traumatizing me with every shift that I worked.

For the next year, life was busy… too busy. Already a mom of three, I would learn soon that I was pregnant once again. Money was tight, and our house was stressful. Along with financial concerns came the pain… hip and back pain that was beyond what I had experienced with any of my previous pregnancies had left me unable to work and on medical leave. Partial placenta previa had affirmed my decision to take time off of work, and left an additional fear on our shoulders as we waited for the all-clear – the knowledge that the placenta was no longer in the way of my cervix and a continuing risk factor for me.

Over the same year, our daughter who was two at the time; was facing an entirely different trial – her kidneys wreaking havoc on her little body. Trying to control her condition was not working, and as summer hit, we were booked into Sick Kids Hospital for her to undergo a fairly major surgery. Thankfully, everything went according to plan, and a few weeks later, our little girl was back… happy and playing and finally well.

I didn’t know that within two weeks of our daughter’s surgery I would face another health concern myself. Still only barely seven months pregnant; I woke up one morning in the worst physical pain, I’ve ever experienced and had my husband take me to the hospital. At first, my symptoms led them to believe that my appendix had ruptured… but an ultrasound soon disproved that theory and showed them instead that it was my gallbladder. Gall stones trapped in my bile duct were yet one more reason to worry, and the pain as my son consistently kicked the inflamed regions was excruciating. Off and on throughout August and most of September… I faced repeated incidences of the same symptoms. The stones usually dislodging and giving me a few days of peace before another flare up.

Finally in September, I arrived at the hospital; sick, tired, and in pain. Speaking calmly but firmly I told the doctor that they needed to take either the baby out, the gallbladder out, or both. I wasn’t leaving without something being done. Labour was induced that afternoon; and after only a minor allergic reaction to an IV antibiotic, my fourth and last child was quickly born.

Ten years ago this past September, our family was completed. A decade. 

And while I found joy in the small moments, that trauma that I experienced the year before had begun a chain-reaction in my life beyond what I, or anyone else could have predicted. 

I once had a wise person tell me not to think in days, or months, or years when it comes to periods in my life. (Okay, she told me this way more than once!) Instead, she advised me to think in decades… a concept that I tried to process and work with, but until recently had been unable to commit to.

But as this past year has floated on past me; it is a thought that has continually come back up.

Up until this past year, I could look back at my life and speak about the trauma that I have consistently faced with a straight face, a few tears, and an acknowledgement that parts of my life hadn’t been rosy. I honestly believed that I had worked through a lot more of what has happened, than what I have.

In a previous post, I mentioned that this past nine months or so, have been the most difficult months I’ve ever experienced.

For a long time, I’ve tried to right the situation.

Nine months. It seems like an incredibly long time to struggle with life – to experience depression and anger and a loss of focus, drive, and hope. Nine months seems like a long time to work on trying to change your life while you continue to hit brick walls. Nine months seems like a decent time frame to get it back together following another traumatic revelation, learn to smile, and actually push through the trauma and reach the other side… wherever that other side might be.

A couple of months ago I was trying to understand why I hadn’t gone anywhere in my recovery… instead I felt like I was spinning further and further out of control.

Over the past two to three months, I have had to learn that nine months was not an adequate time frame for my personal journey towards full healing, to even begin.

It seems kind of crazy. I’ve known about mental health for a long time… and I have experienced fluctuations, ‘aha!’ moments, and triggers. I’ve walked the walk, and I’ve done the work to learn and re-learn how mental illness has affected me, and the ways in which to not only manage it, but to treat it. The past four years, have been an intense and ongoing battle inside my head as I have worked towards acceptance and healing… as I have forced myself into behaving in different manners, and trying to understand where the uncontainable emotions come from.

Almost three months ago I was lying in bed broken. I literally could not move, let alone think straight.

I didn’t know if I had any fight left inside of me. I didn’t know why I was the way I was… and I hated myself. I wanted to run away… I almost did. A grown woman, looking to run away from everything… including her family and the life that she had consistently fought to build.

I’ve taken a lot of time over the past three months – a needed time of quiet… at first I believed I needed to force my brain back into functionality… to return to where it had been, so I could quite simply get back to living life.

But each step I’ve taken in that direction, has reminded me that it’s not possible.

Eleven years since the trauma that began to crack me down the middle… and I finally feel as though I’ve been truly broken - a truly odd feeling for someone who thought she was so much further along in her journey. For the first time ever, I can see the shell of what I was, in pieces on the ground all around me… a small and fragile centre huddled up and exposed where the shell used to shine. For a decade I’ve tried to mend the cracks and pick up pieces and rebuild the puzzle. I wanted the shell. I wanted the normalcy. I wanted the lies.

For the first time I see the real me.

And though my shell is broken – unfixable – the inside is there in one piece, naked and humiliated, and scarred, and terrified to come into the light, terrified of the world seeing the small and fragile person within.

It took a decade plus a year.

Nine months was nothing. Nine months was the final breaking away… the changes that I had made through my work on myself, the mental illness, and the way I lived my life… forcing the final breaking apart.

I’ve frequently spoke of my journey – and that’s the funny thing about being on a journey… you never know what’s around the next bend. What new revelation, breakdown, or stall will occur as you observe the world both around and within you.

And life is like that… built up out of moments – both good and bad – each pattern of events unique… each person’s journey incomparable to another’s – although the similarities able to connect us.

So often, we look at one event - or a short period of our lives, where it's been rough... or where we've been out of control and unable to manage. Sometimes it's a period, where life has seemed to pass us by, as we have just floated through - struggling just to hold on to some semblance of sanity. I've been there. I've done that. 

Now I'm taking a few steps back... looking at the big picture. Letting the shell crumble. Allowing the vulnerability to shine through and make way for true growth. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. It's also the most valuable.

For the first time in a very long time, I can look back over eleven years and let out the breath that had been suffocating me. I can breathe clearly now... my head beginning to make sense again. The calm that I generally feel as I look awkwardly around me different, scary, and unfamiliar... but nice.

I still struggle. But the picture looks better now... open... real... complete in it's in-completion.

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Weaving Words

Recently it came up in my life, that my words were something to be ashamed of once again.

It wasn't tangible... more so a feeling as I continued to navigate a downright messy place in my story.

Several weeks ago, I was hit with that familiar feeling as I sat and listened to a loved one who had recently discovered my blog. As I listened to the feelings that this person experienced as they had read through my words and processed some of my thoughts; the instinct was to huddle up into a corner and pull a blanket over my head. I wanted to hide.

As I heard about this person's second hand experience with my journey... the thoughts morphed from anger (how dare they judge my story!), to sadness and a feeling of loneliness, and back to this deep-seated root of shame, regret, and guilt.

For a while, I changed my settings so that my blog was private, and contemplated deleting every entry I had ever written. I wanted the words gone. I wanted to not be this way. My journey... it was stupid. I shouldn't be airing out my dirty laundry for the world to see... and besides... I should be better by now anyways.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've once again tried to make sense of the world around me. I've spent time diving back into a myriad of questions and problems and traumas... trying to restore some semblance of sanity to my life. In the process I came to realize that writing here... sharing my story is far more important than I had previously given it credit for. A safe place to share my thoughts, encourage others, and end the stigma, only the beginning. The shame that I was feeling, exactly the reason that I should continue to not only write about but to share my journey. Shame, stigma, and feelings of instability, are all fed by continued silence and secrecy.

Last week I restored my blog to a public setting and I worked through some of my own feelings of shame. Right now, it is a chaotic and tumultuous time in my life. I've been dealing with facing my own failures, unraveling a further depth to my trauma than I ever before realized was present, and working hard to set, maintain, and enforce my own personal boundaries.

In the process, I've begun to once again open up and my goal is to continue to share with honesty and humility... for myself, and for others; because our stories are not something to be ashamed of.

This week I faced another moment in the quiet. Alone, I faced the revelation that my posts... my public words and the journey that I have shared in an act of healing; might one day be used against me. A place of safety, healing, and comfort, once again filled me with the deepest sense of shame and regret. This very blog felt like an anchor weighing me down.... evidence in any future case against myself. Look at her! She admits her guilt! There is no question, that she is unwell!

And once again, I choose to halt those thoughts.

Once again, I choose to reach out and take a leap and believe that it's okay to share my story and my struggles. Once again I feel the shame as it lays it's heavy burden upon my shoulders and I reject it. Not today.

This morning I shared a post on Facebook, and I'm going to share it here today. (I do not know who to attribute this meme to, and although I wish I could credit it appropriately, I can't.)

I've been sharing my story for a while now... bits and pieces as thoughts need to escape my head. To talk to me in person, I'm pretty open overall and will gladly answer (most) questions about my journey through not just mental health, but these rough patches in life.
Our stories weave the world in which we leave... strand by strand; coming together to form a beautiful picture. Sometimes we are being woven in the same pattern as the person standing next to us... and though we may both feel alone and unable to see the similarities, a simple conversation could be all that it takes to make things snap into place, so that both sides may realize that they are not alone after all.
Stigma, shame, and instability are all fed in secrecy.

Weaving words into stories. It sounds fantastical... like a fairy-tale author creating new worlds and new lives... a work of fiction. But the reality is that this is our life. Each person has a story... and though the details may differ from one of us to the next, it consistently amazes me that there are so many people that I know who experience similar struggles to me; and yet we oftentimes feel so alone. Unimportant. Filled with shame, guilt, or regret; our own words, admissions, failings, and struggles so often used against us... that we expect nothing else.

And so instead of opening up and sharing our journeys, we hide our experiences and our own unique story under the pillow, close to our hearts; guarded... afraid of the repercussions.

And shame and stigma grow stronger with each whispered word, or hidden struggle.

Today, I'm weaving my words into a single page of my story. Each page is being woven into a chapter, and each chapter a unique experience along my journey. And today I am standing up and speaking out against the shame associated with sharing my trials and my successes.

It is not a weakness, but a strength to be able to open up. To be honest... to show your vulnerabilities, your trials, and your failures. It takes courage and strength to say that I have struggled with suicidal thoughts, mental illness, and general rough patches in life... it takes strength to say I'm not okay, but I'm going to keep trying anyways.

And with each admission of a fight within myself; I feel the power of secrecy and silence dull down. I feel the strength inside of me grow stronger when I whisper those dreaded words of 'I'm not okay', and someone reaches back and says 'It's okay. I've been there. Let me tell you my story.' With every word woven into another part of my journey, I find freedom. No longer trapped by stigma, fear, or judgement, the story becomes just another part of my life; a part of who I am... a human.

For me, this is my safe place. For you, it might begin with a single friend or an anonymous post in a support group.

Shame keeps us a prisoner, a black smudge across the page that we wish we could recant. But sharing our journeys brightens up the page... and brings our stories together. Words woven into beautiful tapestries that show trials and resilience and a fight to not only heal the wounds, but to thrive despite the struggles.

Sharing is not shameful. It is our strength.

* I am currently beginning work on a project that I've been planning for quite some time (details to be announced), if you live in Ontario and would like to find out more and possibly become a part of this journey into sharing our stories; feel free to contact me through either Facebook or Email and I will gladly discuss the opportunity to participate in this amazing project.

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Borderline Truth

Your truth. My truth. THE TRUTH.

It always amazes me how people see the truth as such a subjective matter that can automatically invalidate another person's experience. Being a person who has struggled with big emotions for a long time, it hasn’t always been an easy concept for me to grasp – the difference between my truth, your truth, and the real truth.

Once my Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) was diagnosed – it became impossible for My Truth, to ever be even close to THE TRUTH again.

It’s not that it wasn’t truth… in fact, more often than not, the BPD that I have felt weighed down by, has in fact made things more clear and concise; my fear of not being heard or properly understood, ensuring that I analyse everything that I say repeatedly before I ever actually speak… with only a few selected people allowed in to see more than what I allow to pass through the filter. Unfortunately though, the truth does not always set us free… and being labelled as a ‘borderline’, has crossed my thoughts and emotions into this territory marked ‘over-emotional’.

Over the last couple of weeks specifically, this label – this assumption has plagued me with self-doubt, unease, and a familiar depression; as I was slammed emotionally into a darker place. Speaking out at first was not an option… and when I did speak out to a few friends, it was filled with self-pity, self-loathing, and full on fear – fear of not being heard, fear of abandonment, fear of them taking the ‘other side’, fear of a lack of understanding, and fear of not being articulate enough – of going too far, or exaggerating, or straight up making things worse. But my biggest fear was simply being told that my experiences weren’t the truth.

Because for the past four years, that was what I was told that borderlines did. They lied, manipulated, exaggerated, blew up, had a lack of emotional regulation, and destroyed the lives of those around them. Those in my life have said to me in the same sentence – ‘don’t blame your BPD’ and ‘that’s your BPD talking’. It’s a double edged sword, that really has no merit.

Because along with the BPD diagnosis – I did something else - well several things actually -  over the last four years. I have received counselling, I have worked through DBT (a therapy program specifically for BPD), I have built an understanding and emotionally stable support system around me, I have attended for a time a recovery step-program, and I have continued to implement and put into place those skills, the knowledge, and the analytics to know and pinpoint my behaviour better than ever. I’m not perfect, and I have moments – hell, sometimes I even have days, where I slip up and I feel defeated - like I will never gain freedom from this diagnosis… but I can honestly also say that I have never been at the place of self-awareness I’m at now. Mistakes happen. Emotions can still get the better of me at times… I have hurt people in anger or pain, and I have allowed them to hurt me, because I’m not perfect. Because I’m human.

And where I’m at now is angry.

This week I was told once again, ‘that’s YOUR truth, not THE truth’… another hint at the BPD, and a history of unstable emotions. Another sentence made in anger, so that I would doubt my experiences – not as a BPD sufferer, but as a human. Automatically, because I was hurt, because I refused to allow another human to determine my fate, and because I am in the midst of a painful experience; my thoughts, emotions, and words were automatically considered invalid because of my BPD.

I’m angry, because for a long time – I didn’t know that they were wrong. I couldn’t separate the fact that just because another person disagrees with me, that it doesn’t make the truth any less true. I have been convinced for so long, that because of the BPD, my voice did not deserve to be heard in the midst of trauma or pain. 

Psychologically, I’m facing a major trauma that I should have dealt with many years ago. When I tried to place it… to change things within my life and work through it; I was told ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but that’s YOUR truth, not THE truth’; simply because the person involved didn’t like what I had to say. When I pointed to supporting evidence, it was ignored – as though my BPD mind, simply made it up… poof.

The past week has been brutal. The previous couple of days, darker than some of my others as I allowed someone else to convince me that I was broken – not good enough, unstable, and incapable. I allowed myself to nearly make a major decision, based on another person’s opinion of how difficult a person I can be due to my mental illness. I doubted myself, because I’ve been taught to doubt myself and question every thought, emotion and word.

Today I did a quick google search on BPD. Clicking through some of the links, I was amazed at some of the references to ‘surviving borderlines’ – aka, how to tolerate someone with this diagnosis. As though we are somehow less human, less than capable of loving and being loved. With a focus on the instability of our emotions, we are labelled as difficult to treat, difficult to love, and difficult to even be around.

When I scrolled through some mental health groups that I belong to, there was a stark contrast between those with the disease, and those who love someone with the disease.

I saw the patterns emerge and I was in awe that they seemed to replicate my life. BPD’s have mood swings – intense and unstable mood swings. Until we manage to figure out ways to begin to manage them – they never really disappear, but we learn coping strategies to deal with constant fluctuation. The difference is, that when something big happens (positive OR negative) our reactions can seem to the outsider, extreme. Trauma is especially bad. But the commonality in all of it, was that it continued to get worse – the stigma strongest against this specific diagnosis, as we are taught to doubt every thought and feeling before it’s allowed to be ‘truth’. And unfortunately, in my specific case,  the more work that I have done to combat the 'out of control' nature of the disorder, the more it upset the balance in life. Where once, my BPD could be used as an excuse, a distraction, or as evidence of instability... I now have changed viewpoints, perceptions, and an incredibly strong sense of self-awareness (most of the time anyways).

On the other hand, I saw loved ones talking and sharing about their friends or family who had been diagnosed. I saw an interesting trend (in my mind you, quick scroll), that seemed that at first diagnosis, the loved ones felt a sense of relief…. Finally answers. But as the diagnosis aged… every emotion, every problem, every trauma that the BPD sufferer faced was too much for the loved ones to deal with… the BPD was blamed for everything from general anxiety, to feeling hurt over betrayal, to crying over a sad movie. When the loved ones made a mistake or hurt the BPD - it seemed like the instability of the emotions was a scapegoat. Even when the BPD emotions happened as a direct result of the trauma inflicted on a person, they were blamed for having the disorder in the first place. 

It became a mindset. A case of this is what happens in BPD… I better look out for that at every turn. Nothing is real.

As I scrolled through old threads of conversation and examined my own life a little deeper, I felt the anger grow stronger. I remembered the small comments and the sideways glances. The calm and collected talks that became nightmare fights, because everything became a part of my mental illness... even on days where I was in control and doing well... I couldn't escape the weight of it. It’s the stigma  that has existed within my own home.

One of the environmental factors that is a key indicator of developing Borderline Personality Disorder, is a continued pattern of invalidation in childhood/early teenage years. And yet, as soon as someone is diagnosed with BPD, it seems to begin a new cycle of invalidation – it’s all because of the BPD.

Your feelings don’t matter.

Your instincts can’t possibly be accurate.

Those emotions? Too strong.

Your personality? Too much.

Your pain? Not real.

Your experience? Twisted and corrupted by the Borderline Mind.

And so we manage the emotion. We learn to doubt ourselves… our heads. We carefully construct our sentence, our fear of being called overly-emotional, or exaggerated, or outright liars; always keeping us on high-alert… keeping us from speaking out, from being heard.

This year, I made a promise to myself to try and live a more authentic and honest life. It has led me down some interesting paths – I have had anger and resentment cast towards me over the silliest things, and I have hurt some people with my lack of social etiquette in breaching certain topics. I have failed at times to be as real as I want to be and as real as I still aim to be. I hold secrets within my heart, and I sometimes share too much. I’m still learning how to be real and true… in a healthy way.

But this. This is a start. Because I am tired of being told that my experiences aren’t real, just because they are told from my perspective. My truth, is not any less valid than YOUR truth. And if, my truth at times does become distorted – it’s most often not from any disorder that I might struggle with… most often it’s from lies that I’ve begun to believe, because for so long I was convinced... I have BPD… I can’t trust myself.

But the truth is… I can. And I will.

I am not my diagnosis.

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A Picture Worth A Thousand Lies

Last week I posted a series of family pictures on social media from a week off we had all shared together. An hour later I flipped through the images and I froze… seeing the happy, smiling faces in the images and I realised that I couldn’t do it. Quickly, although a couple people had already ‘liked’ the images, I changed the privacy setting so that only I could see them now.

This week I looked through them again and I changed my mind again… why was I hiding them? Who cares? So again I changed the privacy setting back to ‘friends’ and I added more pictures from the last couple of weeks.

But as I’ve continued to think about it, the thoughts coming back to me constantly… I wondered again, why? Why do we do this? Why do we present something so different from our reality to our friends and family? Why don’t we share the whole truth? The whole story?

For me, this picture in particular, hits me the hardest every time that I see it:

It’s the first picture that I’ve been able to get of our family of six in quite some time. The kids are getting older, schedules are getting busier… and quite frankly… nobody has been in the mood to pose for the typical happy family, wall worthy, portraits.

Today, I didn’t crawl out from my bed until after 9am… a habit that has formed this week as I have struggled with intense insomnia – not falling asleep until early morning on most days, and even then… it’s broken, rough. Even still, as I write this post, my energy is lacking… my focus all over the place, and my mood downright low.

This isn’t new… the last several months (nearly a year) have been some of the hardest ones I’ve ever faced. Sometimes I’ve shared tidbits – if you know me in real life, you might have a few more of the pieces to what’s been going on… but for the most part, I’ve tried my best to push forward, put on a front, and smile through the pain.

Last September I made an educated decision to completely stop my mood medications. After dealing with side effects that included rapid and uncontrollable weight gain (that I’m only just now beginning to get control of again), shifts to my metabolism, a complete hormonal imbalance, lack of focus, drive and energy, and only partial mood stabili

sation – I made the decision to wean off the meds (slowly and carefully). At first – I hid this fact from anyone who asked. Not because I wanted to lie to them, or because I was trying to hide it… but because I felt like it was easier, and I was confident in my decision – I honestly wasn’t interested in hearing anyone else’s opinion on the matter. I needed time to try and reset my body. I also wanted to see if I could figure out how much of my diagnosis was true genetic/chemical, and how much was in relation to my lifetime environmental settings.

Going through the fall, Christmas, and then a long and dreary winter was difficult… but not impossible. Watching my moods, reaching out for support, and trying to maintain some semblance of a routine helped quite a bit. And even through relationship difficulties, financial instability, and fluctuating chemical/hormonal balances as my body adjusted… I survived… some days better than others.

But as February hit… the pieces began to crumble within me once again.

Already in a rough patch, I made some poor decisions in the midst of an already messy situation which resulted in (what I believed was) the end of a close friendship, a termination of my steady counseling, and even further marital stress.

Less than two weeks later… as I was scrambling on my own to find some steady footing… I discovered that some of my driving triggers, fears, and paranoid ideas… were not so wrong afterall. 

Uncovering an entire marriage worth of secrets, lies, betrayals, and twisted manipulations… I began to spiral down that familiar deep, dark, hole again.

But something clicked in me.

Maybe it was years of counseling and work on my mental health... maybe it was some sort of strength and determination… or maybe it was exhaustion; I’m not really sure. But I actually muddled through the darkness and fought my way beyond depression and anxiety, behind paranoia, and a potential psychotic break. It wasn’t perfect and at times it was beyond messy… but I kept going.

And since then, the last five months have been up and down… new triggers added each day as I face a tough season in my life.

As I’ve tried to swim upstream, some days I’ve felt dragged under by the current. Some days I feel like I’m just drifting, and others I’m caught in a riptide, being dragged out of the stream and out to sea.

The last five months I’ve been trying to build very basic pieces of myself to figure out who I am, and where I belong… as well as what I’m capable of. Because somewhere along the way, I fell apart… my brain actually changing, becoming different and unfamiliar. Things that I could previously do, no longer within my capabilities. Focus, thoughts, and triggers…. They were there but unrecognisable. Somewhere within me, and at a very basic level… I somehow broke down even further. The shift so strong, that I can barely recognise myself.

I want to keep pushing through this, but there are some things, that no matter how hard I try… I just can’t seem to grasp anymore.

Recently, my mental health has taken another blow.

Throughout my life, my history with mental health, stress, triggers, and all of the ups and downs… nothing has mattered more to me than my family… and in particular, my children.

Recently, my oldest son, decided to move out… at sixteen years old.

The situation is complicated and I won’t go into it here. But as strong as I am, and as much as I am the adult in the house, and as much as I only want what is best for him… my heart aches.

And with that ache, comes all of the words I’ve had thrown at me over the years. The reminders that I am not good enough, that I am not doing a good job.

My worst fear has come true.

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow… I don’t dare to even try and figure that out.

I want to say that I will find my strength and rebuild the way that I always have… I will come out of this on the other side with funny stories, and battle scars, and a life that I am sure about. And while I am working to muddle through this entire year’s worth of pain and instability… I’m not sure what the other side will look like.

But as I look back at the pictures from just a few short weeks ago, I want to cry... not because of the images, but because that picture is all of the lies that I want to believe.

I want to believe that we are the family presented in the photo. That years of mental health and devastating blows, haven’t taken their toll on this family.

And I wanted to share all of this, because this is the reality.

Tonight I’m sitting at home, my face streaked with tears as I try and pull myself together to watch a movie with our youngest two children. The oldest one is not here right now, and I feel the missing piece with every breath I take. Our second oldest is away at camp for the summer – gone for six weeks. Another ache, knowing how much I miss him. I ache for my youngest two, who are witnessing changes, stress, and heartache… who ask questions and miss both of their brothers right now. The younger two who spend the most time with me, and who notice the changes… but don’t fully understand why.

So tonight I’ll share this post. Because a picture? It’s worth a thousand lies… and if we want to end the stigma against not just mental health, but about all of the triggers that can influence a major breakdown, and that (specifically) a person struggling with mental health needs support in; then the only way to do that is to keep on sharing. Share those pictures of the smiles through the rough times. But share the hard stuff too... because words are just as powerful when filled with truth, pain, love, and support. 

So today, my family is broken. My mental health is struggling. I’m barely able to get out of bed in the mornings, or to respond to calls or texts from family and friends. I’m exhausted and I don’t know if I’m doing anything ‘right’ at all.

And I know I’m not the only one feeling this way.

So let's be real. Life is messy. It’s painful. And it will get easier, if we open up and let each other in.

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Silent Times When I'm "Fine"

Six months ago I experienced a major breakdown… complete with unpredictable behaviour, suicidal threats and intentions, and a brief period of psychosis. My depression had hit, my sleep cycle was erratic at best, I continued to refuse to go back on medications, and for a short time, I felt completely out of control again.

Nearly five months ago, I wrote about Suicide and the Awkwardnessof Speaking Out, where I made a stance and said that I would continue to speak out, share my story, and normalise mental health issues. I was doing better, although still recovering from the traumatic events that had triggered my breakdown and which happened during my breakdown. It was the last time I posted here publicly, allowing others to see a glimpse into my life, and share in my journey.

Four months ago, I broke my life apart… pushing people away, making poor decisions, and retreating into near silence… afraid to let anyone in… afraid to let my failures out. During this time I made conscious choices, semi-conscious mistakes, and subconscious defensive moves… sometimes travelling into the world of offense – ensuring that nobody could hurt me further, and hurting them in the process.

“Messy” doesn’t even begin to describe the world I lived in during these recent months.

And in this time… I haven’t known how to share it, or how to erase the stigma in my own head and allow myself to talk about what’s happened and how it’s changed me. Because the truth is… even now, I still can’t.

Four months later and I am still unravelling the chaos of my head. I am still sorting out the difference between reason and fault… still trying to understand the chain of events that led me to where I was, and where I now am. I am still trying to justify my roles and my actions, while accepting that in some cases I am a victim and I need to work through and understand why certain things played out the way that they did.  

For four months I’ve tried to sort out more than a decade of confusion, unhealthy beliefs, and conflicting emotions. For four months I’ve thought about suicide as an answer, an end, or a release. For four months I’ve isolated myself against close relationships, torn apart my previous knowledge of my own mental health issues, and worked through grief, trauma, and pain. For four months, I’ve isolated myself… and yet maintained my composure, my work ethic, and my outward appearance.

I’ve used the word FINE on a regular basis.

I’ve smiled, and I’ve laughed. And the entire time I’ve felt like a fraud.

Today I was thinking about suicide. Not my own, but the many cases I’ve heard or read about recently, the times I’ve listened to stories, pain, and grief surrounding the death of someone by their own hand. In the media we’ve seen stories appear – Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain the most recent celebrities to take their own lives.

I’ve read articles and comments, and I’ve talked one-on-one to others about suicide and its effects. I want to explain the other side. I want to explain what it feels like to be desperate enough to want to just end the pain.

But recently I can’t.

I can’t find the words. But I can find the feeling. I can’t describe it, but I can relate to it. I can feel it deep within my core when I hear about another person who has succumbed to the thoughts in their head… the pain… the desperation.

And I’m sad. And it hurts.

Because our stories are all so different… but that one thing that we all have in common, is that we just want it to end.

It will be four years in November since my last major suicide attempt. And right now, I feel okay… strong enough to make it through the darker days… and strong enough to reach out if I need it. But I would be lying if I told you it was easy, or that suicide didn’t still enter my mind on occasion, or that I was on a steady uphill climb.

I want to say that talking about it honestly and openly has made it easier… but it hasn’t. And I’ve hidden. I’ve been ashamed. I’ve been embarrassed. Again? Really? Shouldn’t I be over this by now? Shouldn’t I be further along in my journey? Shouldn’t I just shut up, move forward, and keep going; just like everyone else? I think these thoughts and I retreat further. I spend time online or on social media – and I read statements that further this belief.

And then I remember why I talk about it. I remember the freedom. I remember the isolation lifting. I remember the controlling hold that depression has, and the way it's grip loosens when I open up. I remember how it changes me to actually open up and speak out. It's never easy... But it's alnost always worth it. 

I want to keep talking about it. I want to reach out and let anyone else who is struggling know that I’m here, and I’m ready to talk – without judgement or shame. I want to tell those of you who don’t experience these thoughts that you can reach out too… you can ask me questions, you can ask me what it’s like, or what thoughts go through my head... you can ask me why, or why I don't think about others in this state. You can ask me about my kids or my family. You can ask me about the path that put me here, and how I found and continue to find my way out. I want to be a light, a spark, or a hope, for someone struggling and debating the answers themselves right now. I want them to know that there is more. The journey is long... but it's worth it. I want to share my own journey and the life I've been granted following the darkness. 

I want to share... and I want others to know that they can share openly with me, or with friends, or with family. 

Because I know.

I’ve been there. I’m sometimes still there.

And it’s okay. You don’t have to be fine. You don’t have to be alone.

We will get through it. 

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All Shades of Gray

I don’t know where to begin.

I’ve been thinking about returning to writing (and specifically blogging) again for a while. But while I know my topic, and I know the words that are written in my heart; it is difficult to begin again… to write with clarity and focus, accuracy and effectiveness.

My first instinct when I think about coming back to this page and writing, is to do one of two things; either share my success – how far I’ve come and how well I am doing, or to share my woes – to rant, rave, and complain about why things are still difficult… what is up and what is down. Black and white. Good or bad. Mental health or mental illness.

I think the reason I have taken such a long break this time is simple though. Over the last several months I have been focusing on my recovery and specifically on healing. I have been on a journey throughout most of my life, and I am finally at a place where I can finally sit back and see exactly how far I’ve come, and how far I still have to go. I can see the milestones, and the setbacks. I can see the hurt and the pain that still exists in my heart and my mind, and I can also share joy and peace, and stories of growth and commitment.

One experience, although sometimes more good than bad, or bad than good; no longer has the power to shift my thinking to recovery is going good or recovery is going bad.

During recent months I have been faced with the same decisions that I have faced over and over throughout my life. I have dealt with trauma and I have dealt with joy. I have lived with the consequences of my decisions and I have battled blame for decisions that were not mine. I have survived severe back pain, walking away from a job, financial insecurity, marital ups and downs, significant weight gain due to med changes, and general, everyday life.

This year has been one of my toughest yet… facing things that I didn’t believe would happen to me, living through mental and physical exhaustion, and revisiting my past. I have journeyed to the depths of my soul and I have sat and cried, yelled, argued, and thanked God for the trials and the blessings in my life. In marriage, I have recovered from infidelity and faced demons that have been haunting our relationship for decades. I have taken on a new, more confident role, and I have faced my own ability to make a decision that is right for myself and my children.

Each day I wake up and I find that I am learning something new… discovering a positive or a negative about myself or about others. I have learned to watch and listen more than I talk. I have learned to look around and maintain awareness of others and the world around me. I have ventured out of my comfort zone... in personal and in business fronts. I have formed new, valid, and strong opinions about life, love, politics, and the way that I want to live my life.

I still experience ups and downs. I still have days where I want to shout out how well I am doing with my mental health because I have learned one new thing, or discovered that I am now in more control than ever over specific habits. I still have days where I become quiet, desperate, and suicidal; days where I want to bury my head and pretend I don’t exist, or to stay in bed all day long, every day because the world is too much and my brain feels like it will implode if I have to talk to anyone.

As I head into a new year I both cringe and jump for joy. I’m terrified of what this year will bring… more change, more ups, more downs, and more general chaos… a world of unknowns. But I’m excited as well… because, well, my mental health is that… it’s health. It’s a feeling of normalcy despite the diagnosis and the work to maintain it. It is the conversations, the openness, and the candid life that I have learned to live. It is honesty, decision making, and continuous learning and growth. It is an opportunity to thrive in the good times and do more than survive the tough times. 

This is 2018. Mental health is with me... and while my diagnosis is still there, it no longer controls me. Life is moving forward, and this will be the year to move along with it. Big changes, little changes... it doesn't matter as long as I continue to grow, learn, and change... embracing the differences and the similarities... thinking in black and in white... and in all shades of gray. 

Happy New Year!

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(Hypo) Mania and Mental Health

• It’s five a.m. and I’m sitting on the couch, lamenting the fact that I can’t sleep – although I typically love to sleep in as late as possible… today I’m not tired.
• Later on in the day I listen to myself as I talk to a friend, telling a story and laughing and joking around. I notice the stutter in my speech – the way that my brain is moving faster than my lips can keep up. My words are skipping out of my mouth, fast as they tumble forward almost at a speed too quick for my friend to catch.
• When I’m home alone that afternoon, the house feels big, empty, and hollow. I want to sit and write or read, or even binge watch my latest obsession on Netflix… but I can’t. My brain won’t focus and I can’t sit still. It should be good, it should be getting me out and moving – but instead I sit and debate what I want to do, not sure, not able to stay focused on my own surroundings or even on a simple task such as washing dishes. I bounce around the house instead. I wash two dishes, tidy part of the bathroom counter, sweep the living room (but only by the fireplace… I’ll do the rest in a minute), wash three more glasses, and empty the trash but don’t quite get it out to the garage. I wanted to clean my house – but when I finally get distracted by playing with Christmas decorations – my house is still a mess, rooms partially cleaned, and dishes still in the sink.
• It’s dinner time. The ground beef is sitting partially thawed on the counter – I had dozens of grand ideas for dinner tonight; I was going to make stuffed peppers, or enchiladas, or even homemade burgers. Instead I settle for the easiest thing that I can think of – Sloppy Joe sauce from a can… and I text my husband to bring home buns because I simply didn’t get to the store like I was going to do.
• After we eat and I clean up the kitchen my daughter asks me to watch a show with her. Sitting in the living room I put my feet up, and then I put them down, and then I cross my legs. I watch the show, but I open the laptop up periodically to check out an actor’s history on IMDB or to Google a fact I heard in the show. Between that my phone is in my hands… responding to texts, adding tasks to my to-do list, and Googling how-to’s for my latest project, convinced that it’s going to be great.
• By the time that bed time rolls around, I feel like I should feel tired… but I don’t. My body is surprisingly achy and I feel shifty and flighty and like I can’t sit still. I lay down on my yoga mat and try some deep breathing and simple stretching. Eventually I head to bed, sleeping partially through the night – jerking wide awake every so often, each time taking longer to fall back asleep… but I’m never fully asleep… always in that place between wide awake and dreaming – the place where you hear the world around you, but you’re somewhat out of it.

This could be the beginning of a (hypo)manic episode... combined with constant anxiety, irritability, visions of grandeur/success/invincibility, and a belief that I’m not just okay… I’m great.

But in truth I’m not… and even more than living with these swings (but in my mood but in my personality)… I hate admitting that I do. I hate the idea that I’m not okay all of the time... or that mental health isn’t as easy as popping the pills that the doctor ordered and staying on top of counselling. I hate that I can’t simply eat healthy and exercise to put my body and brain back in order and correct my thinking. Most of all, I hate that I can’t simply have an anxious, tense, or quick thinking day without wondering if this is it… is this the beginning of the end of stability? Or am I just happy and having a fidgety day?

Was today really a sign that I’m going down (or up) the rabbit hole again, or was this just a natural cycle for a person, still within the reasonable level… graphed on chart to be worrisome but not yet severe?

Am I going to end up in the hospital again? Switching meds? What if there are worse side effects? Will I crash? Will I become suicidal? What if I become paranoid or delusional? What if I start hallucinating again? Does anyone else notice? Maybe I’m the only one that can see it coming… can I fake it? Should I just carry on and pretend that I'm fine? What if I just watch it carefully? I can slow my speech down, I can act ‘normal’. Maybe I’ll shift back down to normal tomorrow anyways… yeah… tomorrow. And if not… tomorrow I’ll call the doctor… just to, you know… make sure… but I’m fine… I know I’m fine… I feel… I feel good… like really good… this can’t be bad... in fact it’s great. I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine. Do I really even have a 'disorder'?

And that’s how easy it is. How fast it is for someone to say ‘I’m fine’… how quickly my brain can go from logical and concerned and on top of my health… to trying to convince myself and everyone around me that I’m okay, and that nothing is wrong.

I wish I could say that this wasn’t a real example that I used. Unfortunately it is, and unfortunately I know my own cycles all too well. Thankfully, this isn’t from today… but the truth is, I have noticed that I am talking a little faster, and I’m feeling a little more awake than usual – despite the shorter day and lack of daylight. I’m not in the extreme and I am continuing the routine I’ve put in place. I know better now… I know not to stray and I know that I need to be kind and gentle and yet firm to keep myself in check. I know that if one more symptom shows I need to get to a doctor as soon as possible, I also know that I need to call anyways to check in and adjust some meds – just in case… the sooner the better.

This is why my mental health is my priority… my ups and my downs could literally kill me. This disease that supposedly has no cure, simply management; it strikes at any time. Winter, summer, spring, or fall, with little to no warning, and always trying to consume me in one extreme or another.

But I refuse to let it destroy me. I have suffered enough – and although I may live with constant worry, stress, and check-ins, I am winning the fight. I am becoming more aware with each and every day, I am sharing my struggles so that others can step in and help when I need it, and so that in turn, I might also help others who struggle.

For tonight though… my routine is calling and so off to bed I go, knowing that as long as I’m not alone in this fight, I will not just survive, but I will thrive. 

** I just want to clarify that I am not at this time manic (although I am as always, watching for any symptoms that indicate that my mood could destabilize).

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